


A Sign of Hope

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 3+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Barricade Day, First Kiss, First Time, Gun Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Remix, awkward virgins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4081561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Javert touched Valjean's gun, and the one time he made Valjean shoot.</p>
<p> <i>Javert's hand rested on his knee. He stroked his thigh, and that felt good. They had done that before: Javert's touch on his leg or his arm, Javert's fingers against his cheek.</i></p>
<p>  <i>Those things were good, and Valjean had learned to allow himself to be touched and feel his shape gain a new reality, as though Javert had the power to strip from him the scarred husk of the old convict, and remake him as something tender that could tremble and be desired.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sign of Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Three-sentence ficlets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018074) by [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M). 



> This is a remix of [this ficlet by Miss M](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1018074/chapters/8383969), which I promised her a long time ago. I'm sorry this took so long, but yay for Barricade Day giving me a deadline to finish this!
> 
> Happy Barricade Day (also known as the day where Valjean saved Javert and they lived happily ever after)! :D

## 1.

“You never bring back grouse or rabbit.”

Valjean looked up in shock. He had neither seen nor heard the man approach; the large hand now wrapped around his rifle had come as such a surprise that his heart had for one moment ceased to beat. Now, he stood frozen, cold sweat trickling down his back, the cravat at his throat suddenly so uncomfortably tight that breathing was difficult.

How large Javert's hands were, he thought and shuddered inwardly to see them grip the barrel with the same certainty with which Javert would grip shackles of iron.

"Is monsieur frightened of ruffians perhaps, if he does not go out to hunt?"

Terror flooded his veins as Javert slowly pushed the barrel until at first, it pointed at Javert's chest. Javert's mouth seemed the grimace of some wild animal; for a heartbeat, Valjean thought himself lost in a fever dream, his rifle aimed at a tiger come to devour him. And then Javert's hands kept pushing, and Valjean found himself aiming at a tree-stump on the field next to them, where crows were cawing noisily. 

For a moment, the swaying of the ears of golden wheat turned into white-crested waves. He remembered the screams of the gulls, and Javert's shadowed gaze from beneath his hat seemed to him that of the predator pinning the prey beneath its paw.

Valjean took a deep breath. His hands did not shake as he lowered his rifle, although he did not meet Javert's eyes either, keeping his eyes on the crows instead.

"The streets are safe, and so are the woods," he said at last.

"Of course." Javert bowed his head, and Valjean once more thought he saw the sneer of the tiger behind the cold mask.

"And I do not care to waste my bullets on birds." Valjean was still turned towards the crows and their noisy fight. “Consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap...”

"Good day, monsieur," Javert said curtly and turned to leave. Valjean remained, his eyes on the birds, remembering again how Javert had for one moment forced him to turn the rifle against him.

## 2.

“Kill me!” Javert snarled. Strands of hair had escaped the queue and stuck to his face. His lips were pulled back to reveal teeth and gums; his hands, freed but a moment ago, reached out for the barrel of Valjean's rifle and pushed it hard against his own chest, which was heaving with a rage Valjean could not quite understand.

“You are free,” Valjean said again, because that was all he could offer. It was not a gift to Javert – he could see that now. And how could one free a man such as this, who had voluntarily wrapped shackles around his own hands and chained his starved soul to a cold rule that was the absence of mercy?

No, it was not a gift. To such a man, it was punishment. Valjean ached all of a sudden to make him understand, to hold out his hands and show him: _Here, these are the scars left by 19 years of toil under heavy chains. Try these, and see if afterwards you will still so wastefully enslave your own soul when you could be free._

But Javert would not understand. Javert had understood nothing he had tried to say. 

Valjean's rifle was still pressed against his heart, and Valjean looked down at where those large hands clenched around the barrel with such determination that Javert's knuckles stood out white from bruised skin.

How would it feel to surrender himself to the grasp of those hands? To feel them wrap around his shoulders, to stand still even as his heart beat in terror in his chest as those hands wrapped bands of iron around his wrists?

He looked again at Javert's chest. His shirt was dirty, his cravat had come undone. There was something in his eyes Valjean could not place. Perhaps it was simply the absence of fear that took him aback. 

Javert did not fear death: that he could understand. 

But Javert, the Javert he thought he understood, should fear to die by his hand: Jean Valjean the wretch, the convict. It did not seem right to see this man give up, when Javert had never ceased to watch with suspicion and derision. 

_You know me_ , Valjean wanted to say, but he did not. Instead, he freed his rifle from Javert's grasp and pushed him towards the exist of the narrow Rue Mondétour with one hand. 

“I regard myself as your prisoner. You know where to find me,” he said, even as he pointed the rifle at Javert. For one long moment of indecision, rage and frustration and a strange helplessness warred on Javert's face. Would now Javert bare his breast to the rifle and put him to the test, until Valjean would have to lower his weapon and concede defeat – and with it, that small chance of carrying the boy home to Cosette? But then, Javert turned without another word and left, and Valjean tried not to think of how those fingers had grabbed the rifle, and of how they would soon grab his chains instead.

## 3.

He had wandered into the shack looking for a rake. Instead, half-forgotten in a corner, he had stumbled across the old rifle instead. He could not quite say what had made him take it out; but now it was resting over his knees as he cleaned away dust and spiderwebs.

It was strange to hold it in his hands again. Only now did he realize how used he had become to the quiet peace that had slowly seeped into his life. Before, he had always known himself to be hunted. Could it be that now, at last, his weary heart was allowed true rest? 

He drew a woolen cloth soaked in gun grease along the barrel. Yes – he was at peace, he thought in wonder. How strange to know this feeling at last. 

It had taken a long time to nurse Javert back to health. Almost as long as it had taken for Pontmercy to heal, while Valjean was forced to watch Cosette's heart expanding with the joy of a life about to start – away from him. To think about it still brought tears to his eyes sometimes. At first, he had thought that when the day came that she would be taken from him, his heart would break at losing the only happiness he had ever known. 

But then, there had been Javert to watch over, who had seemed as brittle as a tree damaged by the frost. It had seemed unfair at times to have to bear that burden as well – but slowly, while Javert healed, a strange sort of peace had sprung up between them. Perhaps it was simply the rapport of men who knew each other better than anyone else. He kept Javert's secret, that fall into the water which had been no accident. Javert kept his secret: those long years in chains, that terrible word _convict_ that even now made him pale when he thought back to how Cosette had watched the chain-gang pass.

And now Javert was healed, and he had lost Cosette to Pontmercy, and although Valjean was lonely, there were days now when the sound of Javert turning a page of the Moniteur was enough to soothe the ache of his heart. How strange it was to be able to feel something akin to peace now when he spent time with Javert. Could it be that his heart, having lost love, could now be content with understanding?

He smiled slowly and shook his head at himself as he oiled the old rifle. If anyone understood Javert, it was certainly not him. Perhaps not even Javert. But still Javert came to drink his coffee, content enough to spend afternoons and evenings in his presence

There was the sound of footsteps outside the shack, and for a moment, Valjean froze. Old instinct was hard to overcome, although he relaxed as soon as the familiar, tall shape of Javert appeared in the door-frame. Javert had to stoop to enter; it made Valjean smile to see that, and to see that a strand of gray had escaped the ribbon, the knot of his cravat loosened enough to show a glimpse of Javert's throat. 

Valjean could not quite say why he should desire such a thing. Perhaps his heart took this as a sign of hope: if Javert could find contentment in his garden after all this time, then maybe it was not so impossible to live his life without Cosette's laughter beneath these trees. Perhaps he, too, would still be able to find moments of contentment.

He frowned a little when Javert spoke no word of greeting. Javert's eyes had come to rest on the rifle in his hand, and for a moment, Valjean wondered whether this was too much, too soon – could Javert bear a reminder of that night when the storm of change had nearly uprooted him? Once weakened, was not a small gust of wind sometimes enough to fell an old tree?

But then Javert came forward, his cheeks flushed, his hands trembling as he took hold of the barrel. Again Valjean saw before him that terrible moment when the man had snarled at him to shoot him, when he had placed the rifle in his hands against his heart, his eyes a maelstrom of despair–

Now, Valjean watched in disbelief as Javert's fingers wrapped around the barrel with the same care he would sometimes show when he briefly touched Valjean's hand in thanks.

Javert's eyes did not meet his as he lifted the barrel and pressed it to his cheek. Valjean's hands trembled, and again he remembered the rage and despair of the man he had sought to save that night. Now that same man stood before him and bent his head to press his lips to the barrel in reverence, as another might kiss the hand of the priest, and Valjean felt something unfurl in his stomach.

His mouth was dry. There was still the strand of hair that had escaped Javert's queue, and he reached out, confused, uncertain – to neaten Javert's appearance, he told himself. But then Javert raised his head and looked at him, and all thought slipped away. His fingers brushed Javert's lips, as if to reassure himself that this was real. They were warm and soft beneath his fingertips, and Javert's breath was hot against his skin. Alive, Valjean thought. Real.

“Javert,” he said, and then fell silent. He did not know what to say. What words could express this sense of wonder within him as Javert looked at him and allowed him to touch? Javert was holding himself very, very still, as tense as a stag that had heard the hunter. No, Valjean then thought, warmth rising to his cheeks – as though it was Valjean who might start and flee at an unexpected movement.

Valjean exhaled. His heart was beating so loudly that he was certain Javert had to hear. And still Valjean could not turn away. His fingers traced Javert's lips to the corner of his mouth, then followed the curve of the bottom lip, and then, at last, when his hand fell away, Javert stepped closer. He could not have said who had leaned in first, only that Javert's breath was hot against his mouth, and that his lips trembled as though he, too, was scared.

## 4.

Summer had arrived with all the oppressive heat of a late August afternoon. They had not talked about it, but Javert had stayed after dinner, and they had sat outside on a bench in the garden with a bottle of wine, listening to the chirping of crickets and the rustling of a hedgehog in the bushes. It was past the time Javert would usually take his leave, but Valjean was content and grateful for the touch of his shoulder against his own as they watched the sun sink beneath the horizon, dusk lazily arising around them. 

Javert would have to walk home in darkness. Or he could take a fiacre, Valjean thought.

Or he could – 

A flush heated his cheeks. He turned his face against Javert and was rewarded by another tentative kiss. 

There. They had learned this at last. Where gentle words were still difficult, their mouths could learn to be gentle with each other in different ways.

Javert's hand rested on his knee. He stroked his thigh, and that felt good. They had done that before: Javert's touch on his leg or his arm, Javert's fingers against his cheek.

Those things were good, and Valjean had learned to allow himself to be touched and feel his shape gain a new reality, as though Javert had the power to strip from him the scarred husk of the old convict, and remake him as something tender that could tremble and be desired.

Valjean took a deep breath. The air smelled of warm soil and flowers and distant smoke. They were alone in the garden. He thought of how good Javert's hand felt on his thigh, and of how small his bed was. He thought of the warmth of Javert's skin and shivered a little.

They watched as dusk marched towards them, the croaking of toads getting louder even as the birds began to fall silent. At last the sky stretched above them in ever darkening shades of blue, and Javert kissed him one last time with wine sweet upon his lips.

If he stood now and walked inside, Javert would faithfully follow; or, if he kissed him good-bye, Javert would just as faithfully turn and make his way back home through the quiet, hot streets of Paris.

“You will sleep here tonight,” Valjean murmured and had to turn his head away in embarrassment, for even though he had intended it as a question, it was not.

Javert took his hand.

It was strange and sweet to have Javert there with him to put away the empty bottle and then watch Javert light candles while Valjean put away the books that had remained on his desk.

They looked at each other every now and then, sharing a smile, although they did not talk. Valjean wondered what Javert thought, and whether he was filled by the same thrum of restlessness: a new, warm expectation that left no space for fear.

They would share the same bed tonight. He had to look at Javert again at the thought and smiled, helpless and awed by this strange gift he had been given. They would rest next to each other. Perhaps they would kiss: long, slow kisses in the darkness of his bedroom, Javert's chest pressed against his own so that he could feel his heartbeat.

When they finally made it to bed, it was still so warm in the small room that the thought of a blanket was unbearable. Instead, they rested next to each other. Valjean was hotly aware of the fact that Javert wore only his shirt, that Valjean as well wore nothing else, that the bed was so narrow and that Javert had to press so close that even the shirt was nearly too much...

Javert's mouth was hot even through the linen as it pressed to his shoulder. Javert's arm came around his waist, his large hand resting tentatively against his stomach.

For a moment, Valjean ceased to breathe. Javert's fingers splayed. Valjean forced himself to breathe again, feeling the warmth of Javert's hand remaining there, centering him.

This was real, Valjean thought, awed. This was not a dream. This was Javert, heavy and warm and real, and–

A soft gasp escaped him when Javert's hand shifted to rest on his thigh again.

“May I,” Javert asked after long minutes, his voice hesitant even though his breath was scaldingly hot against Valjean's throat.

Valjean could not speak. At last he nodded, then swallowed. Could Javert even see, could he–

Javert's hand slowly moved upwards, and Valjean had to bite his lip when fingertips slipped beneath his nightshirt. Slowly, they made their way upwards. 

Valjean trembled, ecstatic and fearful at once. He was hard; he did not know when it had happened, and even now he wanted to turn away in shame because the thought of Javert seeing this was unbearable, and yet Javert's fingers were so close now that he thought he should die if Javert would not–

A strangled moan escaped him when Javert's hand pressed against him at last. Javert's hand was warm. It took effort to breathe. His skin was damp with sweat. 

Javert's hand against his prick felt heavy and yet too light. Valjean's thighs trembled from the effort of holding still. He wanted to turn his head to look at Javert; he could not, and then, slowly, carefully, Javert's fingers closed around his hard flesh as if this part of him was something precious, and he felt himself encased. Fingers gently ran over him as he was stroked once with unbearable carefulness, and then–

He gasped, turning at last to hide his face against Javert's shoulder as it became too much. His fingers clenched into the fabric of Javert's shirt while the heat within him pooled and pulsed out of him, as though a sudden gust of wind had fanned the warmth into devouring fire. It rolled through him and left him shaking and weak, and there was a hot wetness between his legs, and Javert's fingers around him were slick. But they did not retreat. They remained on him even as he breathed his embarrassment into Javert's shirt.

At last he exhaled deeply and released Javert. Javert's hand was still on him, and it was sticky and damp and messy between his legs. He flushed again at the way that felt – but Javert's hand was warm and reassuring, just touching, covering him, and he did not mind that. It was not so strange after all to be touched there. 

He thought of doing the same to Javert – and that too did not make him feel quite as apprehensive anymore. Instead, he now found himself wondering how Javert would feel against his skin. What it would be like to feel him in his palm. 

“I am sorry.” It escaped him unexpectedly. He had not meant to speak, and now he felt the heat on his face grow even more until his cheeks were burning. Certainly Javert had not expected him to spill himself at a first touch.

Javert made a tired sound, and when Valjean looked up to face him at last, Javert's eyes were warm and weary, and his lips had relaxed into what he had come to recognize as a smile.

_Oh_ , Valjean thought, and looked at him with new fascination: there was a flush on Javert's cheeks as well, and his brow gleamed faintly with sweat. Had he done that?

“It's too hot,” Javert murmured, as if that was explanation enough. Valjean found himself nodding, as if that was completely normal, as if there was no other care than conversing about the weather – as if Javert's hand did not still rest heavy and warm between his legs.

But what did he know of such things? Perhaps it was normal.

Perhaps it could be normal for them.

The croaking of the toads outside had grown louder. In the distance, there were cries of warring cats. Valjean leaned forward until their lips touched again and breathed contentment against Javert's mouth. Javert's eyes were already closed. After a moment, he shifted, his head coming to rest next to Valjean on the pillow, and he sighed quietly.

An owl hooted outside. Valjean's nightshirt was damp. Again he wondered if he would dare to slip his own hand beneath Javert's shirt.

The owl called again, and Javert breathed slowly and deeply. He had already fallen asleep, Valjean realized. Javert's fingers were still on him, warm and reassuring as they covered that most tender part of him.

How strange that this felt so right.

 


End file.
